


And I Think I Could Make You Better

by teaandjumpers



Series: I Was Watching the Whole Time [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:13:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandjumpers/pseuds/teaandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock plans to put an end to John's visits with Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Think I Could Make You Better

John began to see Moriarty regularly. The consulting criminal would send limos to fetch John and would take John to dinners, sporting games, even to the BBC studios. Everywhere they went, Moriarty knew people who were willing to bend over backwards to get Jim what he wanted. Everywhere they went people looked straight through John, as if they were afraid of acknowledging his presence. Lord knew what Moriarty told them about John, if he told them anything at all. And everywhere they went, Jim fucked John, in the restroom of a fancy restaurant, beneath the stand of a football stadium, in the dressing room of some no name actress.

Most recently, Moriarty had fucked John in a private box at the opera. He spent a ridiculous amount of time and money dressing John in some fancy getup complete with a top hat, only to rip it all of the moment they got into the box. He made John hang onto the railing that overlooked the crowd below them as he shoved his cock in and out of John. He had brought his lips close to John’s ear and hissed, “I could just toss you into the crowd once I’m done using you.”

He had punctuated his remark by thrusting into John with more vigor and John’s grip on the railing slipped. His stomach hit the side of the railing and his upper body hung over it and still, Moriarty fucked him as John grappled to hold on to something.

“Because that’s your purpose, John,” Moriarty had said. “To be used.”

John had moaned then and from beneath him he could see a few heads turn to look up at him. He didn’t care. He rolled his hips back against Moriarty and let the man claim him.

Today, the car picked John up just a few blocks away from a crime scene. It was risky, with Sherlock still there collecting samples, but no one was really paying any attention to John.

He slid into the limo and was surprised to find Moriarty in the vehicle. Typically, cars would show up and ferry John to where Moriarty was, but he was never in the car with him.

Moriarty had his phone in hand and was furiously texting away. “Get in,” he said without looking up from his phone. John slid in next to him.

There was another man sitting opposite them. A blonde man dressed in all black. He had a very solemn face and was looking down his nose at John as if he was the lowest of the dregs.

“Sorry about this,” said Jim, finishing up with a text. “We’re going to have to do this on the fly. I’m all booked up for the day.” He tossed his phone aside and pulled John onto his lap.

“I’ve missed you,” he said. “My cock’s missed you.” He had John straddle him and went straight for his belt buckle.

John stilled his hand. “Um,” he said, glancing back at the man sitting behind him. “I’d rather do this without an audience.”

Moriarty ignored him and raked his hands over John’s arse, pulling him closer. “Oh, don’t be coy now John. Not after everything we’ve done.” He ran his hand over the cleft of John’s arse, skimming his hole through his trousers’ fabric.

John bucked into him, desperate for Jim's touch, but he pulled back and shook his head. “I want him out.”

Jim rolled his eyes and pressed the intercom to the front of the limo. “Stop the car,” he said.

The car came to a halt and Jim looked past John at the other man. He jerked his head towards the door and said, “You heard the lady. Out.”

The man harrumphed, but did as he was told. “New intern,” said Moriarty as soon as the door shut. “He has an attitude problem, but I'm told he’s the best sniper in London.”

John had long ago given up trying to reconcile what he was doing with Moriarty. He turned a deaf ear to any mention of Jim’s unsavory activities and so far that had been working brilliantly. It wasn’t like he was aiding Moriarty; the two of them would fuck and go their separate ways. The only time John felt any guilt over it was when he was with Sherlock, particularly when the consulting detective was on a trying case and he made an offhanded comment about Moriarty’s involvement.

Of course Sherlock knew. He didn’t say as much, but it was impossible to hide, not when Moriarty wanted Sherlock to know. Not when he branded John with bite marks and rope burns and returned John freshly bruised to the front steps of 221B.

John shook the thought of Sherlock out of his head and pressed his lips against Jim’s. He parted the man’s mouth with his tongue, sucking and nipping at Jim’s tongue as he rubbed his hardening cock into the man’s stomach.

“Who taught you how to kiss?” asked Jim as he pushed down John’s trousers and pants. He brought a hand to John’s cock and gave it a long, leisurely stroke.

John hummed deep in his throat. “Katie Basset,” he said. “Year ten.” He pulled down Jim’s pants as he slid off the man's lap and wrapped his lips around Jim’s leaking cock.

Jim thrust up into John’s mouth, threading his fingers through John’s hair. “Remind me to post some money to that girl’s bank account."

John smirked around Jim’s length and relaxed his throat muscles, determined to make Jim come loud enough for the men up front to hear.

 

#

 

The flat was dark when John got back, and as soon as he flicked the lights on, he was attacked from behind and wrangled onto the floor. His attacker straddled him, holding John down with his weight and pinning John’s hands above his head.

When John finally got his bearings, he looked up to find Sherlock’s looking down at him. For a moment, John was shocked into stillness, confused, and going through a list of things that could possibly be wrong with his flatmate. Was he drugged? Was he conducting an experiment? He silently watched as Sherlock brought a hand to John’s jacket pocket and fished out his phone.

Two burly looking men appeared from the flat entrance and Sherlock handed them John’s phone. “Take this. Give it to my brother.”

John tried to push Sherlock off of him, all the while asking what the hell he thought he was doing. He bucked and pushed his upper body up, but Sherlock kept pushing him back onto the floor, holding John down with what seemed like little effort.

He gave up and stayed still, looking up at Sherlock with hard eyes.

“Will you be alright, Mr. Holmes?” asked one of the men.

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on John as he answered. “I’ll be fine. Make sure to bolt the door behind you.”

The door clicked shut and John heard the grind of a heavy bar sliding into place.

“Had new locks put in?” asked John, trying to rein in his anger. His blood boiled with a silent fury as he realized what was happening.

“No going out,” said Sherlock in a tempered voice—as if he was talking to one the lackeys at Scotland Yard. He stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in his trousers. “No drinking. No Internet. No contacting anyone.”

He looked down at John with a level of disgust that he’d never thought he’d see the detective level at him. “And don’t expect anyone to come looking for you. Mycroft’s men are surrounding the building.”

John had a good idea who Sherlock meant when he said “anyone,” but he said nothing about it. He stayed on the ground, exhaling deeply through his nose. “You’re going to keep me trapped in here,” he said, trying to keep the shaking ire out of his voice.

“It’s for your own good,” said Sherlock, pulling out his own phone and rattling a text off. He turned towards John and pocketing the phone, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets.

John saw red, and he leaped up and rushed at Sherlock, pushing him against the nearest wall and bracing an arm against Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock’s mouth parted and his eyes lit up with surprise. It sent a jolt down John’s spine, one that made his mouth go dry and made him push harder and had Sherlock gasping for air.

Sherlock stood stock still, his hands curled around John’s arm. He didn’t push John away, even through they both knew he could. He simply stared, his eyes wide and watering, and the hint of something other than shock glazing his eyes.

He looked more vulnerable than John had ever seen him, and it made something in John’s chest break. John sprung away from him, as if he’d been electrified and ran up to his room, locking the door behind him.

 

#

 

Five days passed with neither one of them leaving the flat. Two men stopped by twice a day to deliver food. They were the same men that had locked them in. They only addressed Sherlock, but their eyes never strayed from John. He knew better than to make a run for it while those two were watching. Judging by Sherlock’s comment when they locked the both of them in the flat, they were Mycroft’s men and were likely to be well trained.

Not a single person dropped by the flat, not even Mrs. Hudson, which made John worry about exactly what Sherlock told their landlady to make her keep her distance.

Sherlock had cleaned out the flat. John’s laptop was gone. Sherlock’s laptop was gone. Their only link to the outside world was the telly and the phone that safely rested in Sherlock’s jacket pocket.

Surprisingly, Sherlock had little difficulty adjusting to the lockdown. He spent his days conducting experiments in the kitchen and spent his nights playing the violin. It was John who took to the confinement badly.

He spent the entirety of the first day in his room, refusing to go anywhere near Sherlock. Towards midnight, he snuck down to check the front door, thinking maybe the men had unlocked it by night, but Sherlock was up and awake, his eyes fastening onto John the moment he made it down the last step.

John spent the second day doing pushups and wanking in his room. He left his door open out of spite, hoping Sherlock would walk by and see him.

On the third day, John tried to wrestle Sherlock’s phone out of the detective’s pocket, reaching into the man’s jacket when his back was turned. But John must not have been as quiet as he thought he was, because Sherlock turned around lightning quick and spun John, trapping his arms in a crushing hold from behind.

“Are you done?” Sherlock asked.

Sherlock’s breath was hot in his ear and John wished he could go out and find Jim, find anyone to bend him over and fuck him. He stopped struggling in Sherlock’s grasp and rolled his hips, his body back into the warm and hard lines of Sherlock’s body.

The grip around him slackened and John thrust back again, this time arching his neck and moaning low in his throat. He could feel Sherlock stirring behind him and he turned his head to the side and spoke against Sherlock’s neck, “Do you want me to be done?”

Sherlock’s hands hovered over John’s hips, and John could almost feel how tightly coiled Sherlock’s resolve was and how badly the detective wanted to let it break. He took Sherlock’s hand and placed it over his cock, making Sherlock curl his fingers around him.

He pressed back against Sherlock’s hardness and wrapped the detective’s hand more firmly around him. He wanted Sherlock. And finally, finally, Sherlock wanted him back, and maybe now he would take him, fuck John long and hard in that unrelenting, uncompromising pace he always expected John to keep up with in all of the other aspects of their life.

He whined out Sherlock’s name into the quiet of the flat and, as soon as he did so, Sherlock jumped away from him as if he had been burned. Without even a questioning look back, Sherlock fled to his room and didn’t come out for the rest of the night or the day after.

On the fifth day, John had decided that he’d had enough. Fresh out of the shower, unrobed, he walked into the main living space and stretched out into his armchair. Sherlock was in his own seat, so engrossed in the task of replacing his violin strings that he didn’t bother looking up when John strode into the room.

John didn’t care. He’d have Sherlock’s attention soon enough. He spread his legs out, planting his feet firmly on the floor and took himself in hand. He was at the end of his first earnest stroke when Sherlock’s head shot up and the violin dropped to his feet.

John shut his eyes and resumed stroking himself, reveling in the feel of being bare in what had almost become a sacred space for he and Sherlock. He finally understood why Sherlock walked around the flat half-naked all the time. It was liberating and so very titillating.

“You know,” said John. “When you go around the flat in nothing but a sheet, I don’t think you do it to be difficult.” He opened his eyes then and latched them onto the dark and clouded eyes that were avidly tracking the movements of his hand. “I think you do it because you’re a cock-tease.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped onto John’s and John thought the detective looked a bit like a deer, delicate and doe-eyed and stunned to the point of stillness. John took this as his queue to pounce and he dropped to his knees and crawled over to Sherlock until he was kneeling in front of him. He brought his hands up to Sherlock’s knees and spread his legs apart. With one, furtive look up at the other man, John brought his head down and mouthed Sherlock’s cock through the fabric of the man’s trousers.

Sherlock let out a strangled gasp and scrambled up into his chair and out of John’s reach. He pulled out his phone and furiously began to skirt his fingers over its buttons, no doubt asking Mycroft for assistance.

Instead of chasing after him, John spread himself out on the floor and parted his legs. “Go on,” he said, running his hands up and down his thighs. “Text Mycroft. I’m sure he’ll know exactly what to do with me,” he said, punctuating the word “exactly” by thrusting his hips up into the air.

In retrospect, John wondered why he didn’t play the Mycroft card sooner. There was no faster way to get Sherlock to agree to something than threatening to get Mycroft involved. John should’ve known better that it would be no different when it came to him.

He heard the sound of something clattering to the floor and looked up to find Sherlock unbuckling his belt buckle and the phone nowhere in sight.

“Oh, God, yes,” John whispered as Sherlock released his cock from its restricting confines. It sprung up, already half hard and John’s mouth watered at the sight of it.

Sherlock joined John on the floor and hovered over him. He raked his eyes over every inch of John, pausing at John’s cock. He locked his gaze onto John’s and brought a hand to John’s throat and squeezed. “No one gets to touch you anymore,” he said. “Understand?”

John nodded, his groan lost in his throat.

“I bet I could make you come just by this,” said Sherlock, squeezing tighter.

“I bet you could,” said John, yanking the hand off his throat. He hooked a leg around Sherlock and brought the detective flush against him. “But I’d much rather have you fuck me.”

Sherlock arched into him and buried his head into John’s neck. He bit down on John’s clavicle and licked a trail of kisses up to John’s mouth. “Do you know how many times I’m going to have to fuck you to get the stench of him off of you?”

“No,” said John. “But fucking me once might be a good place to start.”

Sherlock sat up on his knees and dragged John by the ankles, bringing John’s arse closer to him. He spit in his palm and coated his cock with his saliva. He hooked John’s legs over his shoulders and brought his cock to John’s entrance.

John clenched his teeth. He knew this would hurt, they should probably use some type of lubricant, but he didn’t care. He just wanted Sherlock buried in him. He heard Sherlock take a sharp breath and then felt the full brunt of Sherlock’s cock as it drove into him. It stung, but the pain soon gave way to pleasure as he fully became aware of the fact that Sherlock was inside of him.

He looked up to find Sherlock’s eyes blown, hair a wild mess, and lips redder than John had ever seen them. He pulled Sherlock down and crushed his mouth against the detectives. “Fuck me, you bastard,” he said, against those parted lips.

Sherlock breathed harshly against John’s face and started to move. They moaned in unison and John lifted his arms up to cling to Sherlock’s shoulders as Sherlock quickened his pace. Sherlock gave a low, guttural grunt with every thrust of his cock and John thought it was the most erotic thing he had every heard, the calculating Sherlock Holmes making those noises because of him.

He clenched around Sherlock, giving as good as he got, rolling his hips in time with Sherlock’s thrusts. “Christ,” said John digging his nails into Sherlock’s skin. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this. How many nights I spent dreaming about this.”

Sherlock said nothing, but he began to push into John harder, faster, slamming into him with brutal thrusts. He held John down at the chest and rode him, pulling out, pulling his body back and driving home again and again. He clawed at John’s sides, thighs, and arse and with a strangled cry he came, warming John’s insides with a wet heat.

John came quickly after, bucking against Sherlock and milking his own cock as he rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm.

Sherlock stayed buried in him, his cock snug inside of John. He brought a hand to John’s chin and pulled it down so that he was looking at him. “I meant what I said,” said Sherlock. “I don’t want anyone else touching you. If you’re mine, you’re mine alone.”

John nodded and brought Sherlock’s hand to his lips, giving each knuckle a wet, open-mouthed kiss. “Yours,” he said, shifting his lower half and taking comfort in the grounding feeling that came from having Sherlock deep within him.

 

#

 

Sherlock let John out after three more days of house arrest. John spent most of those days on his back or on all fours, completely at Sherlock’s mercy. The first thing John decided to do on his first day out was to take a walk during the late morning. He hadn’t seen the sun in a week and thought some UV rays might do him some good. Every muscle in his body ached, but it was a good ache, the kind you got after a satisfying work out. He stretched his hands up over his head and took in the sharp morning air.

“So that’s it then,” said a voice from behind him.

John came to a halt and turned slowly, not wanting to face the owner of that voice.

There were dark circles under Jim’s eye and his lips were slightly pale, but apart from that, he looked as immaculate as ever.

“Seems like it,” said John, swallowing thickly.

Moriarty nodded, eyes flicking up to the sky then back to John. “The next time I see either of you,” he said, “one of you will die.” He brought a hand to John’s face and stroked his cheek with his thumb. “Try not to let it be you.”

He turned to leave, but John caught a hold of him and pulled him close. He pressed his mouth against Moriarty’s cold lips and whispered, “Please. You could be better than this.”

“I’m sure you’d like to think so. I’m sure it would make all those nights you spent riding my cock easier to swallow.” He pulled back and stepped away from John, drawing a roll of notes out of his wallet. He tucked the money into John’s breast pocket.

“For your services,” said Moriarty and with that, he turned on his heel and walked away.

John’s stomach dropped and a heavy weight settled in his chest. He wanted to be back at home. Back at 221B with Sherlock and his warm embrace. But he was rooted to the spot, unable to move anything save for his eyes that followed Moriarty’s retreating figure. It was nearly lunchtime and more and more people began to trickle onto the streets, bringing with them the clatter of footfalls and the unpleasant grate of their chatter. John was oblivious to most of it, focusing solely on Moriarty who navigated around it, effortlessly snaking his way through the oncoming swarm.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it. Hope you guys enjoyed it. Thank you to everyone who stuck with this. It was a bit taxing to write.


End file.
